My Summer with Charlie Cairoli

Slosh, by Andy Warmsley

You may not immediately recognise the name, but you will certainly know this man’s work. Andy Walmsley is a world-renowned set designer, responsible for the original design of Peter Jay’s Superdome Circus bandstand and the interior at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. He also created the iconic set for the very first Who Wants to Be a Millionaire!

Andy’s connection to the circus runs deep. In his childhood, his mother worked at the Blackpool Tower Circus and worked closely with Charlie. Andy’s very first job there involved making the slosh — gallons and gallons of it every single day.

I grew up in the 70s with a handful of obsessions: puppets, drums, and—strangely enough—custard pies, or more professionally known as slosh. I’d seen Charlie Drake doing a great slosh act in panto, and I was glued to Saturday morning TV watching Tiswas with its Phantom Flan Flinger and endless buckets of water. But no one fueled my fascination with all things custardy and watery more than Charlie Cairoli.

My mum was a fire eater (yes, really) performing under the stage name Judy Allen. Although many associate fire eaters with the circus, by 1979 she had never actually appeared in one. Like me, she grew up in Blackpool, where the annual pilgrimage to the Blackpool Tower Circus was a childhood ritual. And of course, a huge part of that magic was watching Charlie Cairoli—Act 1 with its music entr’acte, and my favourite, Act 2 with the glorious water finale.

Because Charlie was the star of the show, he performed just before the great ring-sinking finale, where the entire circus ring lowered into the depths and filled with water. This gave him a unique advantage no other clown enjoyed: he could use any amount of water, pies, foam, hoses, fire extinguishers—whatever he wanted—without ever worrying about cleanup. Other clowns had to roll out a vinyl mat and were limited by how much mess could realistically be managed. Charlie had an entire sinking ocean at his disposal.

A Dream Summer Begins

My mum landed her dream summer season job at the Tower Circus in 1979 when she auditioned for director Dickie Hurran. He booked her on the spot. She was giddy with excitement when she came home with the news—and it slowly dawned on me that I would have the run of the circus all summer. I usually accompanied my mum to pantos, TV jobs, and summer seasons, but nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the Tower Circus.

I was there from day one of rehearsals, sitting in the Tower watching acts from all over the world set up their equipment, speaking in every language you could imagine. My mum was new to this world but quickly formed a close friendship with Mary Chipperfield, the renowned circus performer from the famous Chipperfield family.

I was twelve years old on the first day and turned thirteen during the run. Early on I noticed a small man walk in and sit quietly, watching the activity. I recognised him immediately: Jimmy Buchanan—“Little Jimmy.” He looked different from his onstage persona: wearing glasses, smiling instead of playing the gormless fool. In reality he was hilarious, heavy-drinking, heavy-smoking, and instantly likeable. My mum adored him.

And then it happened. Charlie Jr walked in, followed by Charlie Cairoli himself.

He looked different without the bowler hat and red nose, but still unmistakable—and the voice sealed it. I was terrified at first. He was a huge star and my absolute idol. They say “never meet your heroes,” but after a few days I began to know him. Then, one afternoon, Charlie Jr and Charlie Sr asked if I’d like a little summer job helping backstage with props.My head nearly exploded.

Of course, saying yes was immediate. It may sound odd today—employing a 12-year-old—but in 70s Blackpool, especially in circus families, children pitched in as naturally as breathing.

Learning the Secrets of Slosh

At first I was given simple tasks like laying out the instruments on a long red-velvet-covered table behind the ring entrance curtains. Over time, both Charlies trusted me with more and more.Then the big moment came.They asked if I’d like to help with the slosh.

My lifelong dream.

Charlie Jr took me into his dressing room, right next to his father’s. He showed me a large metal saucepan and began slicing shaving soap sticks—those old-fashioned round bars barbers used—into the pan, the way you’d peel an apple. I don’t recall the brand, but I can still smell it even now. Two or three full sticks went into the pan with boiling water, simmering for over an hour until they transformed into a thick, gloopy, hot paste.

We carried the pan under the circus seating to a cold brick room near the pipeworks for the aquarium tanks. In this dungeon-like space sat an old stove with six burners. The soap mixture went back on the heat, the kettle went on another burner, and then came the magical part.

Charlie had invented a custom heavy-duty aluminium drum—about 15 inches in diameter and three feet tall—with a welded foot tab at the bottom. Inside was a long pipe topped with a perforated aluminium disc. Hot water went into the drum, then the hot soap mixture, followed by a loose-fitting lid with a hole for the pole handle. Now came the exhausting bit.

You had to stand with your right foot desperately trying to keep hold of the tiny metal tab while pumping the pole up and down, forcing the disc through the mixture. Your arms ached, your foot slipped, steam blasted into your face, and the whole room filled with that soapy scent. After a few minutes we’d lift the lid and check the consistency—usually too runny—so the churning continued until it reached the perfect thick, foamy slosh.

That drum appears in the old grainy photo of me piping pies—just to my right against the wall. When ready, I dolloped the slosh onto white enamel plates and smoothed it with a wooden spatula. Charlie insisted on little red crepe-paper circles as “cherries” on top. I didn’t think they read well in the ring, but it was his aesthetic, and I respected that. Then came the “hero pie”—the big one on a round beer tray. I piled a mountain of slosh onto it, then used one of Charlie’s brilliant inventions: a thin square of aluminium with a corner cut out. Holding it against the foam and using the tray rim as a guide, I scraped around the pie to make that distinctive stepped shape. After that, a canvas icing bag filled with slosh let me pipe decorative blobs on top.

Tiswas pies were prettier and Charlie Drake’s were colourful, but Charlie Cairoli’s pies were unique—industrial, iconic, unmistakable. And twice nightly, plus three times on Saturdays, I made the slosh, filled buckets, prepped props, and handled whatever the show required. (I adored Charlie’s big black industrial buckets—they made Tiswas’s colourful Adis buckets look like toys.)

Charlie Jr always handled the fire extinguisher himself—it was too dangerous for me—but even that was filled with my slosh, thinned down to spray through the hose.

Life in the Circus

As the season went on, more and more people handed me small jobs—ring boys, performers, technicians. I was happily overloaded with cues from pre-show to post-show, the two-hour performance flying by each day. I’d just manage a quick escape to the upper balcony where a lovely lady ran the sweet bar and gifted me free chocolate bars every single day. How she wasn’t fired remains a mystery, but I ate a good chunk of EMI’s profit that year. it was a magical summer for a 12/13-year-old.

My mum and I even hand-reared a baby tiger that was unexpectedly born during a matinee performance. It lived with us all season, travelling back and forth to the Tower in my mum’s Mini. I learned to unicycle, juggle, and even try the trapeze. Jim Henson came to see the show after switching on the Illuminations, and I got his autograph—I still have it.

But my favourite memory is this…

Watching Charlie Become “Charlie”

Sometimes I’d finish my chores early and slip into Charlie Sr’s dressing room. I’d sit quietly and watch him make his red nose. And “make” is the right word. This wasn’t a cheap plastic prop—it was pure theatre craft.

He used nose putty, softening it in warm water, then rolling and shaping it by hand. He brushed glue onto his real nose, applied the putty, blended the edges with a sculpting tool, painted it flesh colour, then added that little red tip. Finally, he brushed on gloss varnish to give it that iconic shine.

He reused each nose for a few days, removing it carefully after each show. I once took one home and kept it for years. I wish I still had it—if I did, it would sit today in a little Perspex box on my desk.

To watch your hero literally create his face in the mirror before your eyes… what a privilege.

I often tell people, truthfully, that my first job in show business was making custard pies for a famous clown in my hometown. My career later took me to the West End, Broadway, Hollywood, and Las Vegas—but my first job was with Charlie.

The Final Year

1979—my year at the Circus—turned out to be Charlie’s last. He had his first heart attack during the season. He survived but couldn’t continue performing, and Charlie Jr stepped in beautifully. I stayed on to help him, keeping things running as normally as possible.

About a year later, Charlie passed away at the age of 70. I was invited to the funeral and asked by Violetta, his widow, to sit beside her at the front. Halfway through the service, I looked behind me and realised I was the only child—if you could still call me that—in the chapel for a man who dedicated his life to entertaining children.

Andy Warmsley